Barrack Room Ballads: ROUTE MARCHIN’

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ROUTE MARCHIN’

WE’RE marchin’ on relief over Injia’s sunny plains,
A little front o’ Christmas time an’ just be’ind the Rains,
Ho! get away, you bullock-man, you’ve ‘eard the bugle blowed,
There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk Road;
     With its best foot first
     And the road a-sliding past,
     An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground exactly like the last;
     While the Big Drum says,
     With ‘is ‘rowdy-dowdy-dow!’—
     ‘Kiko kissywarsti don’t you hamsher argyjow?’

Oh, there’s them Injian temples to admire when you see,
There’s the peacock round the corner an’ the monkey up the tree,
An’ there’s that rummy silver grass a-wavin’ in the wind,
An’ the old Grand Trunk a trailin’ like a rifle-sling be’ind.
     While it’s best foot first, etc.

At half-past five’s Revelly, an’ our tents they down must come,
Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick ‘em up at ‘ome.
But it’s over in a minute, an’ at six the column starts,
While the women and the kiddies sit an’ shiver in the carts.
     And it’s best foot first, etc.

Oh, then it’s open order, an’ we lights our pipes an’ sings,
An’ we talks about our rations an’ a lot of other things,
And we thinks o’ friends in England, an’ we wonders what they’re at,
An’ ‘ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.¹
     An’ it’s best foot first, etc.

It’s none so bad o’ Sunday, when you’re lyin’ at your ease,
To watch the kites a-wheelin’ round them feather-’eaded trees,
For although there ain’t no women yet there ain’t no barrick-yards,
So the orficers goes shootin’ an’ the men they plays at cards.
     Till it’s best foot first, etc.

So ‘ark an’ ‘eed you rookies, which is always grumblin’ sore,
There’s worser things than marchin’ from Umballa to Cawnpore;
And if your ‘eels are blistered an’ they feels to ‘urt like ‘ell
You drop some tallow in your socks an’ that will make ‘em well.
     For it’s best foot first, etc.

We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s coral strand,
Eight ‘undred fightin’ Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band.
Ho! get away, you bullock-man, you’ve ‘eard the bugle blowed,
There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk Road.
     With its best foot first
     And the road a-sliding past,
     An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground exactly like the last;
     While the Big Drum says,
     With ‘is ‘rowdy-dowdy-dow!’—
‘Kiko kissywarsti don’t you hamsher argyjow?’ ²

¹ Thomas’s first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language.

² Why don’t you get on?

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